Of a Father and His Unwilling Son
by PHLover213
Summary: "Although he would never admit it—and it was certain that he never would—he was used to the solitude, he had grown accustomed to being alone and ostracized and hated... A bit of pointless Erik/Daroga family fluff to last 'till I write something legit. R


"Yes, yes, my boy, I know, you're going to kill me. If I had a dollar every time I heard that one . . ."

"You would be a very _dead_ man."

The older chuckled, settling in his armchair. "Come, come, such hostility. Your anger is useless here, lad."

"_Why_ do you keep calling me that? I'm only ten years younger than you!" Indignant. Angry. The old fool had no _right_ to treat him as if he were still in his twenties, as if this was still the court of Mazenderan.

"I call you 'lad' for the same reason you call me old man . . ." he paused and chuckled at his own wit before adding, quietly: "Lad."

"I _will_ kill you, old man."

He chuckled, a deep, _fatherly_ sound. "Here I am, go right ahead, my boy." he closed his eyes and leaned back. "I should think it's about time to go, anyway."

Erik growled and crossed his arms, his impotent anger ebbing despite the look upon his curiously unmasked face. "I would gladly kill you if you weren't so _God-damned_ agreeable all the bloody time."

"Now, now, my boy, Christine would not approve of you taking her Lord's name in vain, mm?" the daroga smiled with his crooked teeth. "And we had best not disappoint Christine, isn't that right?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't, my son."

Erik froze at that one. Son? Did he hear that correctly?

"Who do you think you are, the bloody Pope?"

"All these curses! You are turning my lovely little flat into a mad-house, I tell you!"

Erik rose to his feet, frustrated by the acceptance and comfort he felt in the little Rue de Rivoli apartment. Although he would never admit it—and it was certain that he never would—he was used to the solitude, he had grown accustomed to being alone and ostracized and hated. It was uncomfortable to feel such fraternal, familial affection for someone and truth be told, he didn't like it one little bit.

Or so he assured himself.

"So tell me, Erik, my boy, how is the obsession going?"

Erik glared and paced predatorily by the roaring fire, looking every bit as majestic and fierce as a lion. "She is wonderful," he said, feeling that it was at least slightly neutral ground. "She has always been wonderful. She is in good health, she is singing as angelically as ever, and just last week she swore never to love a man."

"Well," said the daroga, his bushy eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline. "You've backed yourself into a corner, eh, lad?"

"What?" asked the Opera Ghost, not a little bemused as he clasped his hands behind his back. "What on God's horrid earth do you mean?"

"If she does not—cannot—love a man, how do you expect for her to love you, hm?"

"I am no _man_, daroga, she does not think of me as a mortal—I am a beast, in any case."

"_La belle et la bête,_" said the Persian, with a knowing smile. "I suppose there is hope for you yet, my boy." He looked cautious when saying this, almost as if—as if he was _frightened_ of being _rejected_. Rejected. Erik smiled and took up his hat, putting on his cloak with a flourish; they appeared as a dark angel's wings.

"I suppose there is." Erik said, touching his hat to the daroga and walking towards the door. "Thank you, as always, for the talk, daroga," he paused and stared pensively into the crackling flames. "It was . . . horrid."

The daroga chuckled, rising with difficulty to his feet and wobbling. Erik spun and before the Persian knew what was happening, his walking cane was in his hand, and he was being held up by the elbow. He glanced down to see a yellow-white, dexterous, thin hand. He smiled. "Thank you, my son," he said fondly, and Erik glared at him with derision.

"You, old man, are far too sentimental." With obvious caution, he let go of his elderly friend, and continued on to the door. "You need to witness some bloodshed."

The daroga rolled his eyes. "Say what you will, Erik, I know you care deeply for your dear adopted father."

Erik shot him a fiery glare. "Almost as much as I care for that dear young lad, the Vicomte de bloody Chagny." his voice simply dripped with sarcasm. "Good day, daroga," he could not stop himself from adding: "Be cautious."

The daroga nodded, his dark-skinned brow furrowed. "The same to you, son, I do not want to hear about any dead Vicomtes."

Erik had opened the front door. "Then do not read the paper."

The door was shut, the elderly Persian was alone, and he couldn't help a smile, hoping sincerely that his son was joking.

**xxxx**

**No, before you ask, this strange fic does not have a point. Yes, it was written in about two hours.**

**So, I haven't seen you guys for months! **_**Months!**_** How dreadful. But I've had a lot of real life stuff going on—the start, **_**par example**_**, of year eleven—and I simply haven't had the time or the motivation to sit down and write. **

**I auditioned for my school's production of Anything Goes. I went for the role of Hope Harcourt. No, this is not vital information, but you should all be very proud of me because I am amazing. **

**Anyway.**

**I'm rambling.**

**Please leave a review, and I'll see you all when I can be bothered writing some more fanfic. Till then, mes amis, au revoir.**


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